The T-Shirt Thief
by Ace-Sherlock-Holmes
Summary: Request: Sherlock steals John's t-shirt from the laundry. John catches him wearing it one evening, fluff ensues with an endeared yet teasing John? Now Complete.
1. Chapter 1

When winter hits, Sherlock is always mildly disappointed. The thin, cotton t-shirts that John wears are replaced with thick, heavy jumpers. The woolen material hides John's well-pronounced muscles, and deceives Sherlock's eyes into believing the man is softer than he really is.

It is annoying, tedious, unacceptable! John is a delectable creature made out of sharp, well defined lines. Those hideous jumpers obstruct Sherlock from being able to see the undeniable truth. Upon seeing John wearing such things, Sherlock feels a hot pricking behind his eyes, as though he is trying to develop X ray vision to compensate for what the jumpers hide. It is single-handedly the most irritating thing Sherlock has experienced to date.

It is a relief when the hot British summer settles in. Just like most houses in London, their flat is not fitted with air conditioning, which means the offensive items of clothing John wears in the colder months are packed away. Along come the thinner long sleeved shirts (the blue, stripy one is his favourite), however it is not these that Sherlock most looks forward to, but the lighter fabrics John dawns when the heat is unbearable.

The T-shirts leave little to the imagination. Sherlock is able to see and observe even the most minuscule details. There is no getting past the fact John used to be a soldier, and this does indescribable things to Sherlock.

He absorbs all of the information he can, because he knows the heat won't last long, so neither will the dawning of T-shirts. He files everything away into the 'John Watson' room he has tucked away in the very depths of his Mind Palace.

Whenever Sherlock catches himself in a black mood, he retreats to the room in his mind immediately, and sits among images of John. Lately most of the images are John in those bloody gorgeous T-shirts, and it is almost enough to drive the detective to the point of insanity.

Whereas the oatmeal jumpers are awful and frustrating, Sherlock finds himself becoming more and more frustrated with the summer clothes John wears. The reason behind his frustration, however, is entirely different this time around.

He wants to reach out to John, to run his fingers along the material. He gets urges to smother John with his own body, just so he can get close to the T-shirt, and the rippling torso muscles beneath. Seeing John like this does inexplicable, unexplained things to him, and it scares and annoys him because there is little that he can do about it.

He's not stupid. He has eyes. He knows that if he makes any advances towards John, especially advances that could conceived as sexual, the older man will withdraw.

There is currently a wafer thin line that sits between them; their relationship is stronger than a platonic friendship, but it isn't quite teetering on the edge of a romantic relationship either.

Sherlock feels beyond ridiculous. The way he feels...it can never be reciprocated. That much has been made clear by John, in the way that he protests when people think they are a couple, and the way that if Sherlock's touch lingers a bit too long the man seems to flinch away.

It hurts because even though John is physically there with him, there is a part of him that Sherlock is not privy to. There is a rift between them as of late, and with each day that ticks by, each moment of heated tension that passes between them, Sherlock feels it growing. He wants nothing more than to snap, tell John he is being ridiculous, and confess his fondness and...love...yes, love for him.

He sometimes dreams about John telling him he feels the exact same way, leaning up on his tippy toes, and kissing Sherlock lovingly. The thought of John and him becoming lovers warms hims deep inside. The ugly, gaping rift between them would at last be closed, and they would say everything they have always held back just by falling into each others kisses and feather light touches.

Those dreams are often replaced with nightmares, and thoughts of John's rejection, upon reacting negatively to Sherlock being so utterly besotted with him. He pictures John's lips forming a vicious snarl, fist clenched, and he watches as John's eyes turn dead. Then, without being able to stop him, John packs his stuff and leaves. Sherlock is always left alone in this scenario, suddenly feeling terribly small. His gaze drifts across to John's empty chair and it feels so fundamentally wrong, that it's like a bullet has torn through his chest.

Whenever he rouses from these thoughts, he feels sick, and the ache is his chest is still present. He has to play his violin just to drown out the image of John's departure. When that fails, he creeps up to John's bedroom, and watches him sleep. There is something that is quite comforting to Sherlock, seeing John still there in his bed, chest rising and falling.

A voice inside his head tells him _"everything is fine, John is right here, he's not left you."_

He realises that his actions are close to crossing a line. If John ever finds out that he watches him sleep there will be hell to pay. But the quiet, calm sensation that washes over Sherlock whenever he stands in the doorway, watching a sleeping John, is worth the risk of the man waking up and discovering his dirty little secret.

There is one night that it does come close. John's natural REM pattern is broken. He starts to sit up in his bed, alert of something being off, and his eyes flit wildly in the darkness to try and make out the shadow outside his room. Sherlock holds his breath, slinks back into the darkness as silently as he can manage, his tongue gravitating to the roof of his mouth. He waits there. He prepares to be scolded by John, but instead the man just sighs, and settles back down under his duvet cover.

Sherlock swears after that moment that he is going to put an end to all of this nonsense. He will just have to stop thinking about John. He will cease to dream about loving John, kissing him, touching him. And he will most certainly put a stop to his nightmares and the ridiculous notion that John might ever leave Baker Street (England might just fall).


	2. Chapter 2

Morning hits and Sherlock's plan to push all thoughts of John away fail miserably. He wakes up, feeling exhausted from his rather emotionally draining night. He looks like a disaster, he realises. Huge bags circle beneath his eyes, his hair lies limp and greasy against his forehead, and his dressing gown hangs precariously on his shoulders.

He shuffles out of his room, not even pretending to feel sorry for himself, because he truly feels terrible. It's like he's coming down from the best high he has ever had. And perhaps that's what John has become to him now; a drug. Because as soon as the man comes into his line of sight, he instantly feels his body gravitate towards him.

John looks up from where he is making two cups of tea. He's in one of his plain white T-shirts again, and it's just too much for Sherlock to handle. All of his thoughts rise up to the surface.

The soft, cheerful smile on John's face drops as soon as he soaks in Sherlock's tired, unkempt appearance. It is quickly replaced with an open mask of care and worry.

"God Sherlock, you look awful."

Sherlock scoffs, the sound coming out a bit choked. "Oh lovely. Cheers, John."

The sudden sensation of John's fingers touching his face startles him, and he literally jumps. The touch is dangerous, it's deadly, it might just send Sherlock to his very early grave. Can't John see what affect he is having on him? Why must he torture him?

"Sherlock," John's frown intensifies. His voice is so soft, so tender, that it causes something to well up inside Sherlock. He swallows and pushes whatever that unnamed emotion is deep down inside, before it can make itself known in the form of his body language. "Look at me, would you?"

He feels the pressure of John's thumb against the sharpness of his cheekbone. It pushes him gently, tries to get his head to turn in his direction. The small touch is so warm that Sherlock can feel his cheeks rising with unwanted colour. He wants to push his cheek up against that touch, get as close to John as possible, but he refrains himself from doing so.

He forces his gaze over to John, and hopes his eyes aren't as wet as he imagines they are. He feels wired, like all of the connections in his mind are coming loose, and this leaves him feeling lost and befuddled. He squints at John through the haze in his deep, cordial blue eyes, and tries his best to focus.

"John?" He murmurs softly, unsure of what the man could possibly be thinking.

"What's wrong, Sherlock? Are you sick?"

Sherlock just simply nods, because he must be sick, mustn't he? His mind is going into a fully blown meltdown, and he feels odd. Odd is an understatement. He feels as though he is experiencing some sort of outer body experience. There is too much stimuli, too many thoughts, and his skull pounds as every one of his senses attacks him.

He swallows dryly, a painful lump rising in his throat, as his Adams apple bobs anxiously. Everything hurts. Nothing feels right. He's so out of his depth, and he's so bloody terrified of what John is doing to him.

"Headache." He manages to rasp out. It's not a complete lie, as he can feel a migraine building behind his eyes, an internal pressure that threatens to crush his skull from the inside out. Behind his eyelids tiny, white flashing lights start to flicker.

John breaths out in relief, though the frown remains. "Right, first things first, I'm marching you straight back to bed." Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John is quick to interject. "No arguments, Lock. I'm your doctor, so I know best, right?"

Sherlock isn't able to fathom words. His usually intelligent brain is rendered useless. The headache that is building really is reaching dangerous pain levels, so he doesn't argue with John.

He wonders if John knows he just called him "Lock", and whether he is quite aware how intimate and endearing that nickname is. He is unable to ponder this question for long, as John places a hand on the small of his back, and they amble to his bedroom.

John is so kind, so gentle. The way he tucks Sherlock up under the covers makes Sherlock's heart swell. It's not fair. It hurts. Why can't John seen how much this is paining him?

He is instructed by John to drink some water and swallow some painkillers. He's not sure how he manages this, but he somehow does. Then John closes the curtains, preventing any light from shining in from the outside world, and plunging the bedroom into crepuscular gloom.

When John starts to leave, Sherlock feels wrong, and he calls him back in his weak voice. A sound that is akin to a whimper slips loose from his lips, and he reaches out to the man, his hands flailing about wildly.

"Please," he hears himself say. _The 'I need you so much it hurts' remains silent._ His voice sounds distant, not like himself at all, and for a moment he wonders if he actually spoke out loud. _  
_

But then John is sitting on the mattress next to him, face peering curiously at Sherlock. His hand moves to wipe away an errant curl away from Sherlock's forehead, the action almost like a lover would do, for it was that tender. It makes him want to scream, to drown himself in John Watson, to selfishly admit to what is really wrong with him.

"God, Sherlock. What's gotten in to you lately?"

Sherlock screams inside his mind. _You, John. It's always been you. You're what's gotten into me._ Instead of saying this, Sherlock reaches across and pulls at John around his waist.

The man falls forward with a gruff grunt, landing in an undignified heap right next to Sherlock. "Jesus Christ, Lock. Pack it in, would ya? I know you're not feeling well, but-"

Sherlock's lower lip trembles, cutting John off mid sentence. There was that nickname again. When would this endless torture stop?

He pulls John closer still, begins to rub his thumb against the softness of his T-shirt, and then he finally manages to find his voice. "Stay," he requests, the word barely a whisper.

John's mask of annoyance drops, and is replaced by a softness that just about kills Sherlock. "Of course," John says gently. "Of course I'll stay with you, Lock."

The mattress squeaks as John re-positions himself and tries to find a comfortable position. There's still space between them, and this simply won't do, so Sherlock tugs and pulls until John and he are trapped in a "lovers knot" position. They are face to face, their limbs entangled with each other, like they're one person rather than two.

He pushes his chest up against John's warm, solid body, and lets out a satisfied sigh. His hands continue to stroke patterns on the cotton. He isn't sure that in this current state he can bring himself to care about the consequences of his actions.

In this moment, whilst he is "sick", he will indulge his silly fantasies. John will not be angry at an ill man, nor will he condemn any actions that are a result of a severe migraine. So he allows himself to be as selfish as he likes, touching John more intimately than he has touched anyone in his life.

Then he feels a pair of solid, smaller hands on his own. He fears that he may have overstepped the mark a little, but instead of the hands stopping him, they just settle on top of his instead. He can't tell whether this is a good sign or not, can barely think past the thumping inside his head.

The hands that are on his squeeze gently. "Go to sleep, Lock. Your head should feel better when you wake up."

Sherlock's head settles against his pillow, all of the tension in his body leaving him. He wishes that he could use this opportunity to deduce John. What a glorious opportunity that would be! But unfortunately the opportunity is missed, as his eyes turn heavy, and he drifts off into one of the happiest sleeps he's had in a while.

There are no nightmares of John rejecting him this time. Only happy images of being completely tangled up with the man he loves, chests rising in perfect sync, hands clutching each other like their lives depend on it. He feels very reassured that John in real life is pressed up against him. His solid weight and the comfort he provides bleeds into Sherlock's dream-state.


	3. Chapter 3

When Sherlock awakes the pain in his head has dulled. Though there is still a strange throbbing sensation left over.

He can deal with the remaining ache in his head. It is the cold, chilling realisation that John is no longer in bed with him that he finds harder to cope with. He turns his head to see a note from John saying that he had to go to work.

He sighs, his head flopping back onto his pillow, eyes fluttering shut as a panic rips through him. The timing of John's job could not be any more tedious or irritating.

He'd hoped that he'd wake up to John still in bed. Perhaps they would have been able to discuss things, finally air things out, but alas Sherlock once again finds himself alone and pining after his flatmate.

What would be the best course of action from here on out? Should he mention the cuddling in bed scenario to John? Or would it become another unspoken topic between them? Another spanner in the works to stop them from crossing the threshold, and giving everything to each other?

* * *

John arrives home from work later that night. He's in an utterly foul mood, and has clearly had a rubbish time at work.

"John," Sherlock starts, but the man's hand rises, stopping him in his tracks.

"Don't, Sherlock. I've had more than enough today. Just let me be for now, OK?"

Sherlock watches, horrified, as John stomps into the kitchen and silently boils the kettle.

Right then, they weren't going to talk about it? That suited Sherlock. His infatuation with John Watson would remain secret, buried deep in the confines of his ice cold heart. He tells himself that he is perfectly OK with that, but his drifting thoughts surpass all of the lies he tells himself.

* * *

The heat must be sweltering outside. Sherlock deduces that this led to a very unpleasant tube journey home. No wonder John is in such a foul and unapproachable mood.

Sherlock catches small glimpses of John's pecs sticking to the almost see-through material of his T-shirt, nipples hardened beneath the surface. His eyes trail over the man's shoulders, pour wistfully along the broad expanse of his chest, and move down to the place where John's abs meld in with his firm stomach.

He finds himself getting lost in thoughts about John's clothing more than could be deemed rational. He thinks back to when he was allowed to touch that material, how soft the cotton is, and he comes to the conclusion that John's entire upper half must live in luxury.

He knows that his thoughts, and his gaze linger for far too long these days. Something inside him stirs; his stomach bubbles nervously, his heart beats a bit too fast, and whenever John catches him staring a warmth rises to his cheeks.

There are times where Sherlock allows that warmth to gush through him, until his head feels light, and his toes curl. There are other times where John is on the precipice edge of discovering Sherlock's secret, but as always their relationship becomes riddled with miscommunication. This moment right here, where they were avoiding talking about what happened, is proof of that.

The room feels heated. The tension has Sherlock sitting on tenterhooks. It feels as though something big might explode between them. He waits, thoughts racing. It's a ticking time bomb, and might happen at any given moment. T _ick. Tock. Tick. Tock._


	4. Chapter 4

It climaxes in Sherlock and John having another little domestic. Sherlock doesn't see it coming, until John is huffing and slamming his cup of tea down, nose wrinkling in annoyance.

He barely notices this because once again his head has been away with the fairies. He had just been thinking about what it would be like to wear one of John's T-shirts, to feel the same comfort and relief, to have his nipples brush against the same places John's had. It was is an unbelievably stimulating thought, and he wants to keep it fresh in his mind for as long as he is capable of.

When John runs a hand over his face, he snaps away from his train of thought, and focuses solely on the man who sits before him. He knows when he sees the pinched expression written on John's face that he has done something terribly wrong. He'd been so tucked into his Mind Palace, that whatever he has done is lost on him.

"John-" he feels the urgent need to apologise. Though for what, he hasn't the faintest.

"Ya know, Sherlock, I put up with a lot." John interrupts him. "You store thumbs next to the bloody milk, and eyeballs in the microwave. Your experiments take up the entire kitchen table so I can't eat breakfast there. You play your violin all through the bloody night when I'm trying to sleep. You ruin every single one of my attempts to date. But this -" he points to Sherlock with an accusing finger. "this really bloody takes the biscuit!"

Sherlock blinks in surprise by John's sudden outburst. John's words leave him feeling more confused. They offer him no clarification whatsoever. John is seething, that much is clear.

He watches as John's teeth grind together in frustration, and the hand that occasionally still suffers from a tremor clenches tight. John is using that controlled breathing that Ella taught him, the sort where he only takes very careful breaths through his nose, as though trying to restrain a monstrous rage inside.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock offers lamely. "What?"

This is apparently the wrong thing to say, as John's face turns a dangerous shade of red, and his eyes narrow. "You can't remember? Did you delete it? Or were you so busy in your Mind Palace that it just didn't register?"

"Um." Sherlock's mouth opens and closes, perfectly mimicking a goldfish. "The latter I believe."

"Unbelievable!" John exclaims, and stands up fast, whole body jerking with the motion. This causes the white, plain t-shirt John is wearing to ride up, and proves to be more than a little distracting, as Sherlock is treated to the sight of a strip of pale flesh.

"I tune out sometimes." Sherlock says as nonchalantly as possible. "Did I say something important?"

"Typical bloody Sherlock Holmes." John shakes his head. "You tease me about my t-shirts, humiliate me, and you aren't even aware of it. Great, thanks Sherlock. On that note I'm going to bed. I'm tired and I'm so, so done. And would you stop bloody grinning? It was scary after the first few minutes. Now it's just annoying."

Every muscle in Sherlock's body goes taut beneath his skin. He feels as though someone has turned him inside out, his emotions, and all his musings about John now sitting on his sleeve...so to speak.

He wonders what he could have possibly said. He'd never tease John about his T-shirts, would never be so cruel as to make John feel uncomfortable with his appearance, especially since he loves seeing John in his t-shirts so much that it hurts. Yet, he obviously said something, or John wouldn't be upset.

He is unable to speak, all of his words getting caught behind the lump of raw emotion that has risen in his throat. So he watches helplessly as John marches off stroppily to his room.

Then he remembers John's offhand comment about him grinning. His fingers rise to his cheeks and he presses against the corners of his lips. His mouth is, as John said, performing an ear splitting smile. He pulls at the flesh until his lips form a thin, unhappy line.

His transport must have given him away whilst he was thinking about John. He berates his body, especially his lips, and bites down hard on them as a form of self-punishment. He didn't mean this to happen, he really didn't. Lately Sherlock has begun to lose control over his inhibitions. It's just that the thought of John in his entirety, fills Sherlock with an overwhelming amount of happiness, and causes his hear to soar in his chest like it's flying.

It's not the false, cold happiness that cocaine gives him. Cocaine numbs everything, fades all of the pain out, and washes his world in hues of blue. John is the opposite of that. John paints his world in bright, warm shades of Autumn reds and golds. Whenever Sherlock is with him he feels giddy, like he is lighter than air, and is barely able to think about anything else.

Now that John has left, a dark mood shrouds over Sherlock. He dislikes it when there is bad blood between him and John. It makes him too uncomfortable to sleep, and the guilt chews away at him, until he feels like he might just drown in that feeling.

There will be no sleeping for him tonight if things are left the way that they are. He needs to fix this immediately, so he heaves himself out of his chair, and makes his steady journey up to John's room.

Sherlock is aware that John may not appreciate the offer of an apology, not whilst the anger is so fresh, but he has to try. He tells himself that this is for his own sanity, as if he doesn't sleep tonight, John will get even angrier at him for neglecting his transport.

It's for the best, really. At least that's what he tells himself as he makes his journey up the stairs. Each step he takes creaks beneath him, causing his muscles to briefly tense, and his heart to absurdly beat faster. Consequently, it takes Sherlock a significantly longer time than it should do to reach his destination.

And then he's there right outside John's door, tension curling inside him, creeping into his belly, and causing a strange tightness to well up in his chest. He reaches out one of his hands, fingers sliding over the well polished knob, hesitant in twisting it.

Feelings of trepidation surge through him. It's like the world tilts at an odd angle as he brings up the courage to open the door. As it creaks open, Sherlock's breath catches in his throat painfully.

It's too late to apologise now. John has already fallen into an angry pit of sleep. It's too hot tonight for John to sleep under his duvet covers, so he is laid out on the thin sheets beneath him. His bare chest falls and rises steadily, but there is still a frown marring his sleeping features, as though the remnants of irritation still grip John tight.

The T-shirt John had been wearing has now been divested, chucked carelessly to the floor. This leaves Sherlock with a clear view of John's perfect pecs and his sharp, defined muscles. His eyes trail down John's torso and he stares for a bit too long.

There is so much information to absorb; the curling blonde hairs on John's chest, the ripple of muscle with each breath John takes, the creeping snail trail that curls down John's stomach and into his boxer shorts. Sherlock thinks that John might just be the most perfect human being he has ever seen, and he's back to hurting all over again, because seeing John like this...

It makes him want to crawl into bed with the man, hug hum close, and never let go. He wants to spend his nights pressed up against John's solid form, and he wants to wake in the morning next to him just so he can he observe the man in his sleepy, pre-fully awake state.

He wonders what it would be like to exchange sleepy, morning kisses with John. His hand rises to his lips, as he realises that he's actually making a pouty kissing face, and he scowls in frustration. This situation was beginning to get out of control. He couldn't even control what his face was doing these days. This was terrible news because even John, a less observant man than he, would be able to deduce what was wrong with Sherlock given time.

Then he'll leave. He'll see Sherlock's heart, and he'll be furious, and he'll never want to speak to Sherlock again. No more cases, no more blogging, no more ridiculous jumpers, and no more Sherlock Holmes & John Watson.

All of his fears and insecurities rise up inside him. He can feel another headache beginning to set in, except this time John won't want to take care of him because he's angry and fast asleep. This thought causes his head to pound, and he forces a suppressed groan down, not wanting to wake the sleeping man.

It would only take a few long strides and Sherlock would be standing right over John's sleeping form, and yet every one of his instincts holds him back. Never has Sherlock been so close to John Watson, yet felt so utterly lonely and miserable.

 _This is intolerable,_ Sherlock thinks, his head spinning. Then his eyes gravitate to the abandoned T-shirt, and he bites his lip. He wants to pick it up from the floor and hold it. It couldn't hurt, could it?

That's what he tells himself as he leans down and plucks it up. But as soon as his fingers touch the material, he loses his sense of propriety completely, and he finds himself clutching it to his chest, as though it can somehow replace the real John Watson.

He realises that he is approaching dangerous waters and he has to leave the room before he gets caught out. Still clutching the T-shirt like it is a life line, he quietly ducks out of the room.


	5. Chapter 5

He shuts his own bedroom door as quietly as possible. It's unlikely that John will wake from such a deep slumber, but he feels cautious and on edge. If John realises what Sherlock has done, then there will be high hell to pay, Sherlock is sure.

He throws himself onto his bed in a childish manner, legs and arms spread wide, so he forms a starfish on his sheet. Then he carefully unravels the material in his hands, so it lies unfolded over the curve of his pillow. He smooths the creases out of the T-shirt, and pretends in his mind that his fingers are running over John's broad chest.

He sniffles when he realises how pathetic he must look. He's like someone who has lost his lover, but that isn't true, because he and John have never been lovers. On many occasions Sherlock had thought they had come close to gaining such a title, but there was always something that stopped it from happening.

He presses his nose against the material and inhales. When he realises he can smell John's musky, natural scent, he loses it completely. His breathing becomes ragged and the room is filled with animalistic snuffles, as he tries to draw John's comforting smell up into his nostrils. John once described Sherlock as a bloodhound in one of his blog posts; in this moment the description could not be any more accurate.

That smell wraps over him like a comfort blanket, and he wants to smother himself in it. When just smelling the T-shirt isn't enough, he frantically removes his button up, and slips it on over his head instead. It clings to his skin, and it feels like a hug from John so much, that Sherlock's eyes well with tears.

His hands fist the material briefly, before he wraps his slender arms around himself, hugging his chest tight. This seems to give Sherlock's brain the impression that John is actually with him, and he falls into a thankfully dreamless sleep.

* * *

Sherlock is able to avoid John for two whole days. He locks himself inside his room, clutching the T-shirt to him, selfishly inhaling John's scent. He tells John that he working on a case, and not to interupt him. Well, he texts him, and John seems to have bought it, as for a blissful 48 hrs he manages to escape reality, and drown in the glory of John's T-shirt.

He ignores the strong stomach pangs when hunger hits him, the way his mouth unpleasantly dehydrates without any liquids, and the way his muscles ache from remaining curled up in one position for so long.

In this time period Sherlock sleeps more than he has ever done in his life, finding it easier to ignore the painful reality of life, and falling into dreams of John loving and caring about him.

Somehow, as he sleeps, he forgets that John is a doctor. This leads him to also forget that John is bound to worry and interfere if worried about his wellbeing. Seeing as Sherlock had neither moved or risen from his own bedroom in two days, John has surpassed worried, and had moved on to down right perturbed.

* * *

The cold hands on his face cause him to jerk awake, eyes squinting, mind disorientated. He scrambles into a sitting position, his cramping muscles protesting, and he sways a little as he comes into full consciousness. He feels the grogginess that comes with sleeping too much grip him.

It takes him a moment too long to realise what is happening. John is in the room with him, giving him a complete once over to make sure he isn't fatally ill or injured, or god forbid high. Something softens in John's face after a moment, as he seems to come to the conclusion that Sherlock is safe, just dehydrated and malnourished.

But then that softness is replaced by a stern frown, and Sherlock knows that he's in for a lecture. He swallows thickly, suddenly feeling childish, and that's when a realisation hits him. He's still wearing John's T-shirt, plain as day. It now smells more like Sherlock than John, as though their scents have begun to mingle, and the circular neckline is covered in saliva from where Sherlock has chewed on it in his sleep. Even an idiot would be able to come with the logical reason behind Sherlock's obscure actions.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock." John pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Don't do that to me ever again! I thought something serious might have happened to you."

"How nice of you to care." Sherlock says, trying to deflect. "Now that you can see I have not died in my sleep, you may leave."

He winces when he realises how sore and dry his throat is. His voice is usually quite deep, but now it crackles, and plunges so that it sounds even more gravelly.

"Nuh, uh. I'm not playing this game, Sherlock. Not this time."

He sees the flash of worry on John's face, and a glass of water is pressed against his lips before he can gather the strength to protest. He takes small, delicate sips, wanting to bide his time for as long as possible.

When his thirst is at last quenched, the glass has been drained, and John places it on the bedside table. He turns to Sherlock and looks quite stern, like he is a soldier disciplining his privates once more. There is something about John's "Captain Watson" mode that does dark and dangerous things to Sherlock, and he almost forgets to breathe.

"For god sake, breathe, would you?" John demands, and his lungs listen, stuttering and gulping down wild breaths of air.

"John," he says softly. "I know how this must look. I'll understand if you want to leave at once. You've put up with my antics for far too long, don't you think?"

"What? Sherlock...?" If Sherlock didn't know better he would say John sounds hurt, but he does know better, and John isn't the one who is going to get hurt by this conversation. Sherlock knows that it will be him that is completely obliterated as John leaves Baker Street forever.

"You said it yourself. You said that you were tired, so very tired. I gather that being around my company exhausts you, and that is hardly surprising, given my recent peculiar behavior. I completely understand if you walk out of the flat and never look back. We can terminate our...relationship. It is for the best, really."

"Woah, woah." John waves his hands in front of him, shakes his head vigorously. "You're jumping to conclusions, Lock. Please just let me talk, yeh?"

"Am I?" Sherlock sniffs, tries his best to ignore that ineffable nickname. "Please do enlighten me."

John stops standing and hauls himself onto Sherlock's mattress, budging so close that Sherlock can feel the warmth radiating off the other man. He tries his best not to push against that warmth, but his body betrays him and his face buries itself against John's shoulder. His nose brushes up against the nape of John's neck, offering him a little comfort.

A hand settles gently in Sherlock's thick, springy curls. It feels so fundamentally right, that the pain inside his chest burns, and he is forced to shut his eyes. Because he wants this, he wants it so badly, and John is such an utter tease, fooling him into thinking he could have this.

If John is leaving him, he is taking his sweet time, dragging out the cruelty to punish Sherlock for loving him. Perhaps this is what he deserves. This endless facade, this lie that John could love him back, that they could be together like this for the rest of their lives. Sherlock deserves to be punished.

"I'm sorry," John starts. "I didn't mean to snap at you before. I had a long, tiring day, and my journey home was horrendous. I'm not mad at you, Lock. You didn't do anything wrong. You-were beyond perfect in fact. Please look at me? I need to see your face."

"No." Sherlock says stubbornly, not moving. He's scared to draw back, can't be entirely sure of what expression now resides on John's face. "You have no need to lie, John. You made your feelings perfectly clear. I said something that upset you, and you stomped off as you always do. As you will always do. Until the day it becomes too much and you leave me."

The hand that rests in Sherlock's thick set of curls tightens its grip. The arm that isn't already occupied moves to loop around Sherlock's waist, pulling him into a tight and loving embrace.

"Enough of that, Lock. You really think I could leave you? After everything we've been through? Moriarty, the fall, Mary? No, no, no. How can you even think that?"

"Quite easily, actually." Sherlock drawls.

"Stop this, stop this now." John hisses angrily, voice so close to Sherlock's ear he flinches, his whole body starting to shake intensely from the slow build up of emotions inside him. "Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to get mad, OK?"

"What did I say?" Sherlock asks after a slow nod of understanding. "You didn't tell me, and I quite frankly don't remember."

"You...you told me I looked quite delectable when I wear T-shirts. Or rather you spoke aloud. I'm not sure you ever meant to tell me in person. You were in your Mind Palace and your mouth was running amok, as always."

"Oh." The younger man turns, shifts in the bed, so that he is looking at John. His eyes are a little puffy, and they shimmer with a bright, shiny layer. He feels like he may start sobbing at any given moment, his usually strong resolve crumbling to pieces. "And that angered you? That's hardly the worst thing I've ever said."

"No," John muses. "That wasn't what set me off at all. Rather, it was my own reaction to those words. I'm no good speaking about these things, Lock. I find them hard, you understand."

"I am aware."

"Prior to the fall I was struggling with some...feelings. Some less than platonic feelings for you, if I'm being honest. I barely had time to figure them out before you took the plunge. Then Mary came into my life, and I tried to get her to fill the hole in my heart, but we both know how that ended up."

Sherlock hums low in his throat, remembering the day Mary was killed, and the hectic whirlwind that had followed. Very quickly John had moved out of his and Mary's flat, unable to handle his grief and being alone there, and had moved back into Baker Street with Sherlock. "Normal" life had assumed itself, and they both had begun to share a wonderful life together. It was at is should have always been, except there was something missing from the picture.

His thoughts drift back to what John said about his less than platonic feelings, and for the first time in months his heart pounds in his chest, and a gush of hope fills him up from head to toe. He wonders if he's reading too much into what John is admitting, but no, the man's words could not be any clearer.

"And now?" He finds himself demanding, eyes wide with wonder. "What are your feelings now?"

He feels John tense beside him, can practically hear the cogwheels turning in his skull, and he waits patiently for John to find the words he is so obviously seeking.

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again. You are the most human human being I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Is it any wonder that I've fallen for you? It was inevitable, wasn't it? It's how our relationship progresses. At first we weren't even mates, then I saved you life, then we became friends, then best friends but I never told you, and now..."

"Now what?" Sherlock asks, tone impatient and demanding, because he is desperate to hear John finish his sentence.

"And now I think I love you. No, not think. I know I do." John's hands rise to his mouth, a choked noise escaping him. "Oh god, I didn't think I'd ever say that out loud."

Sherlock suddenly bolts upright, performing his best impression of a meerkat on guard duty, pupils wide and every fiber of him alert. He blinks at John, just blinks. The rift between him and John is finally starting to close and heal, he feels it deep down in his gut, and it's far too good to be true. But it is. John just admitted that he is in love with Sherlock, and now the man is waiting for him to respond.

His lips flail, try to find the words, but struggle to. He doesn't know how to convey his love, can't possibly voice how much John means to him, so he comes to the obvious conclusion that his actions will simply have to do instead. He locks eyes with John, the man looking as petrified as Sherlock feels, and he conveys what he is about to do.

John nods, which signals that Sherlock is good to continue, and he isn't reading this situation wrong. His entire body trembles with anticipation as he leans forward, all of his fears still gripping him tight, even as his lips come to hover over John's own.

It's like their relationship implodes and sets alight when their soft lips meet each other midway. Time slows down, and all of the tension melts from both of their bodies. The kiss takes Sherlock to a place where his insecurities no longer exist.

All the while his mind is yelling in victory: J _ohn wants him, John loves him, John is kissing and holding him.  
_

They fall into each other, a mass of arms and flailing legs, taking it in turns to explore, to touch, neither of them bothering to hold back now that they knew there is nothing off limits.

The kiss itself is a bit awkward and rushed, as they try to pour every unspoken thing between them into it. The angle is all off, mouths locking and battling against each other, sparks of electricity flying between them. _  
_

This irritates Sherlock, because the angle doesn't allow as much contact as he would like. He decides that he is going to rectify this immediately, and he clambers onto John's lap, so that they are directly facing each other.

He takes John's hands in his, and withdraws momentarily, drawing out a needy whine from John. This makes Sherlock smile wide and he presses his lips against John's forehead to soothe him. _  
_

"Shall we try that one again?" _He asks, voice gruff and teasing._ "A little slower this time, if you would please." _  
_

"Oh god yes."

John's pupils are dilated, his hair is more ruffled than Sherlock has ever seen it, and his lips are bruised from their crushing kiss. He looks utterly used and debauched. This thought sends a thrill through Sherlock, and he can't wait to unravel John even more. He did this. He did this to John Watson. No one else - him!

This time when their lips meet, there isn't the urgency that had been there before. It was slower, just as Sherlock had requested. Tiny butterfly kisses that turn into longer, languid ones. Their tongues dance in sync, and they are able to explore each others mouths in great detail, seeking out what made the other moan.

Sherlock finds himself falling in love with the pleasurable noises that John makes as they kiss each other silly. But alas, they have to breathe again, and they pull apart, their lips still hovering close by so that they can dive back into things at a moments notice.

"You know," Sherlock says softly, lovingly. "I love you too. I couldn't say it before...but I can now."

"I think I got that from the kiss." John grins like a mad man, licking his lips. " And the fact you stole my T-shirt."

Oh! Sherlock glances down and swallows loudly as he catches sight of the white material. "I'd rather forgotten about it. Do...are you mad?"

John barks out a loud laugh, eyes crinkling in amusement. "Hardly. I mean, it led to this, didn't it? And, well, you're rather adorable in it."

"Adorable?" Sherlock looks appalled at the use of the descriptor, and his cheeks rise with a blush. "Puppies are adorable, fluffy bumble bees are adorable, but I most certainly am not."

"Nope," John chimes. "You have to be the most adorable thing ever when you're wearing my t-shirts."

"Am not." Sherlock huffs, his burrow furrowing, but this only amuses John more. He leans forwards and kisses the little lines on Sherlock's forehead, eyes filled with adoration.

"Don't pout, love. I was only teasing."

 _Love. He called me Love. Oh god. This man might just be the death of me._

Sherlock doesn't have much time to contemplate his death, as John pulls him into a hug, and Sherlock instinctively snuggles into the warmth and the protection the man's arms offer.

"You have no idea how much I've wanted this," Sherlock whispers after a pleasant, companionable silence washes over them. "Or how terrified I've been of losing you. I thought if you ever discovered how I felt you would leave me, and that I would be alone."

"Oh, love." John sighs softly, squeezing him around the middle tight. "I wish I'd known you were having such an internal battle. I could have helped, but I just didn't know, I'm sorry."

"Not your fault. I was just being an idiot."

"Yes, yes you were. How could you think I could leave you? Never, Lock. I could never leave you alone like that. It would hurt me, just as much as it would hurt you, knowing that I'd abandoned you like that. How can I prove I'm not going anywhere? Hmm? How can I show you I'm in for the long haul?"

Sherlock raises one eloquent eyebrow, looks John dead in the eyes, and his lips tremble with the question they carry forth. "Marry me?" He asks, the two words genuine.

His heart hammers painfully in his chest as he waits for John to answer. The noise of his pulse gushes frantically against his ear question itself has John's mind reeling, eyes wide with shock, lips twisted with confusion. He's scared that he's moving too fast for John, even now prepares himself for rejection.

"You're the love of my life," John says after a few torturous moments. "You are the best and wisest man I have ever known, so yes, of course I'll marry you."

The relief that floods through Sherlock is immense. Before he is even allowed the time to process John - his fiances answer - his lips become smothered in kisses once more.

Everything falls into place around him. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson against the rest of the world.


End file.
